My perilous pen eludes me as I scramble
    to scribble nouns, adjectives, and action verbs
        seizing the grammar into something meaningful,
            but the words stare at me, mocking
my ineptitude, and they ascribe
    to their own malevolent agenda.

To fill a page full of eloquent metaphor
    much like Kerouac, Burroughs, or Collins,
        as if their presence will assist me in scribing
a newsworthy masterpiece or New York Times
        bestseller. Another cup of coffee please.

I attempt  an ode to love, a subject I consider
    for the ten thousandth time, a habit I revive,
        and then try a rant, my four hundred fifty-first
            effort. How original. Time for a drink.

Wine in hand, I now peruse older works
    for weary revision, as if I am inspired
        by what is stale and trite, like rewriting
            Dr. Suess’ “Green Eggs and Ham”.
Time for a smoke. Wait, I am not blessed
    with that vile habit. Perhaps I will start now.

Seconds turn into minutes turn into hours,
    and I am still perched at my dire desk,
        praying to the Almighty that a miraculous
            phenomenon will occur to jolt the senses:
an earthquake, a blackout, a tidal wave.
    No such pristine luck.

The phrases I have printed mock, cajole,
    and snicker in sinister tones, until eureka!
        I remind myself that some days the poetry
            is ominous, like trying to impede a freight train
by holding up a stop sign, and I gently remind
    myself that tomorrow will be yet another chance
        to wake up bright and fresh, like Rip Van Winkle
            after a twenty year nap. Brilliance emerges
like a tornado, and creativity will anticipate
    a way to display those shifty words
        that for now are snoring to the hum
             of tender rain as it raps on the roof
of my secluded bedroom.